Inexorable Tide and Pounding Surf
by shilo1364
Summary: After a lifetime of war, Harry searches for something he can't quite define. His journey takes him to Northern California, to the rocky shore of the Pacific Coast, where he finds what he was searching for — if not what he expected. A story of endings and beginnings, of loss and letting go and moving on. Drarry. Complete. A rewrite / expansion of the oneshot now titled Tide & Surf


_Summary: After a lifetime of war, Harry searches for something he can't quite define. His journey takes him all the way to Northern California, to the rocky shore of the Pacific Coast, where he finds what he was searching for — if not what he expected._

 _A story of endings and beginnings, of loss and letting go and moving on. Of the pull of gentle hope and despair, and a quiet, bone-deep strength. Of peace._

 _Notes: An odd little story; a love letter to the place I live, and a testament to how the power of the ocean and the trees can heal the heart and soul. Told through Harry's eyes, beginning with the end of Hinny and ending with the beginning of drarry, because I love drarry nearly as much as I love where I live._

 _This is a rewritten and expanded story based on the earlier one-shot of the same name, which has now been renamed Tide & Surf, to reduce confusion. It now includes drarry, and follows Harry's journey from the end of his relationship with Ginny to the beginning of his relationship with Draco. :-)_

* * *

Harry woke alone in their rented room, fingers searching blindly across the empty expanse of the bed for Ginny. The sheets were cold, the warmth of her body already leached away. He fumbled for his glasses, tugged on worn jeans and a jumper, ran a hand through sleep-tousled hair. He glanced at the clock by the bed; it was early, still.

Her shoes lay by the door, where she'd kicked them off the night before; the quilt was missing from the end of the bed. Frowning, he shoved his glasses up his nose, bleary eyes catching on the sliding door, left open, curtain billowing gently in the breeze.

He slipped on his shoes and stepped out into the morning, shivering, jolted into wakefulness, and then took the jagged stair down the face of the cliff, instinct drawing him toward the sea. He watched his footing carefully, feeling every one of his half-healed war injuries protesting as he navigated the steps carved into the sandy cliff.

They had been eroded, worn down by wind and rain, and the logs forming each step were slick and treacherous. They were deeper, he guessed, than when they'd been put in and uncomfortably steep. Each step jarred his aching knee, and he winced, clutching at the splintery handrail, as his thoughts skittered around just _how_ he'd injured it. He didn't like to think of the war — it hurt too much. He'd lost too much.

Some of the steps were gone completely, washed away in some long-past storm, and he jumped awkwardly down, grimacing as he thought of having to clamber back up. He _could_ apparate, he supposed, but their magical tourism VISA only allowed the use of magic when strictly necessary. He didn't really want to be dragged before MACUSA just because he couldn't manage a few measly steps. Hermione had explained that _very_ thoroughly — enough that he'd done no magic at all since arriving. He supposed he'd feel bad about that, only Ginny hadn't done any either. Anyway, he hadn't needed to. Yet.

He wavered as a loose pebble shifted beneath him, gripping the handrail tighter in case his knee chose that moment to fail. But it didn't, and after a moment he went on.

The crashing surf grew louder as he descended, filling his ears with a constant pulsing roar. Scraggly plants he couldn't identify clung to the cliff face; tiny pink flowers bloomed impossibly, defiantly, in the sandy soil. A gull soared past him, crying mournfully, and he stopped to watch it fold its wings and dive, brushing across the top of the waves before climbing back into the air. He turned his head, tracking its path across the low-hanging clouds and out over the churning sea, colorless and dotted with foam.

He thought of the disposable camera tucked away in his bag, of Hermione's insistence that he absolutely _must_ bring her photographs, and he half-turned to go back and fetch it. But the sight of the stairs stopped him, and he reminded himself that he'd come out here for a reason, anyway. Ginny often woke before him — he'd carried the habit of insomnia over from the war — but something whispered that this time was different. He didn't question it. He didn't sense any danger, but… Still. He needed to find her.

He followed the tracks leading off across the sand, nodding to an older couple as they materialized suddenly out of the fog, shapeless under layers of coats the indescribable color of the sea and sand around them. The man whistled, once, the sound carrying eerily in the creeping fog, and a shaggy black dog bounded over the sand to his side, shaking droplets of water into the air. The man raised his hand to Harry and the three of them faded back into the mist.

Harry felt his chest constrict, and resolutely shoved away thoughts of Sirius. He didn't have time for a breakdown now. He picked his way forward, skirting a patch of kelp, dark green and vaguely gelatinous, stinking of fish and decay. Tiny purple crabs scuttled away from his worn trainers. He bent down, suddenly, spying something winking gold at the water's edge and chasing it without thought. He ran his thumb over the oddly smooth stone, not gold, he saw now, but yellow-amber and glassy. He hefted it, testing its weight before slipping it into his pocket. A pelican skimmed low across the water in front of him, scooped up a fish in its beak and took to the air once more. The gull wheeled and dove, cries echoing in the mist.

Craggy rocks thrust from the water like broken, blackened teeth; the surf rushed over them, around them, flinging spray into the air. A flash of color caught his eye, a deep blue-green, and he stared down into the shallow pool, wondering at the gently waving fronds of an anemone. He'd seen a picture of one, in the brochure for this place, as Hermione waved it in his face, instructing him to get away, salvage his fractured relationship, his will to live. The photo hadn't done it justice. He moved on, following the siren song of the sea and the fading path of footprints gleaming darkly on the gray sand.

He rounded another hulking rock and nearly stumbled into Ginny; she stood silent and unmoving at the water's edge, staring out to sea, eyes distant, unreadable. The wind changed, whipping her brilliant hair out behind her like a banner, impossibly bright in this gray, colorless world. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he watched it dance, watched a ray of sun pierce the fog and turn her hair to flame.

She shivered, drew the patchwork quilt close about her bare shoulders, and turned to him. A smile curved her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes; they looked past him, at the sea, and he knew.

"You're leaving."

It wasn't a question, not really. He'd known this was coming, he supposed. This trip had been their last attempt at connecting, in this strange new world they found themselves in, now that the war was over. Now that they no longer had to fight, they didn't know quite what to do with themselves. Sometime in that last year they'd spent apart, they'd both grown up.

Her eyes focused on him, finally, and her smile grew sad. "You're not surprised."

"No."

She nodded, accepting it, much like he'd accepted that he'd already lost her. After everything he'd been through, this fizzling of their childhood romance didn't seem as tragic as he'd once thought it would.

"What will you do?"

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth tugging up. It felt foreign, that smile, and slid quickly off his face. He'd forgotten how to smile, it seemed; he'd somehow failed to notice.

"Learn to live, I suppose. You?"

She sighed, slumping against him. He slung an arm around her shoulder, letting her familiar scent wash over him, mingling with the smell of salt on the breeze.

"The same. It's not going to be easy, is it?"

They stood together, staring out at the storm-tossed sea as it rushed in and retreated, flecked with foam. The breeze lashed strands of Ginny's hair across both their cheeks, damp from the clinging fog and tasting of salt. Gulls wheeled against the leaden sky; a flock of geese soared overhead, honking. Orange and purple starfish clung to the rocks, unexpected jolts of color in the desolate landscape. Silvery fish darted in the shallows, racing the waves to shore and back out. Sea-grass waved amid hulks of driftwood on the sand.

A whale breached in the distance, startling them, and was gone with a quiet flip of its tail. A seal bobbed close to shore, watching them with curious eyes. Tiny shorebirds danced along the water's edge.

Harry laughed, breathy and uneven, feeling the bitterness he'd carried for so long fall away as he watched the ceaseless, uncaring sea, feeling tendrils of quiet peace well up to replace it, borne in on the encroaching tide.

"No. But, then, nothing worth doing ever is."

* * *

Harry drove her to the airport the next morning. It seemed wrong, somehow, not to. He opened the trunk of the too-large rental car, hefted her bag without thinking. He turned toward the tiny airport, marveling again at how small it was, but Ginny's hand on his arm stopped him, jerked him from the haze of blind habit. She took his face in her hands, reminding him of her mother. He caught a whiff of her perfume.

"Harry," she asked, searching his eyes intently, "are you sure about this?"

He covered her hands with his own and smiled. "More sure than I've been about anything. I think I need some time to figure out who I am, without all that _Chosen One_ crap."

She nodded, patted his cheek and then disengaged, tugging lightly at the strap of her bag. "I can take it from here," she said, eyes kind, understanding, but the set of her lips and jaw told him that he'd lose this fight, so he backed down.

It felt so strange, foreign to the very fibers of his being. He was the Chosen One. It was the only identity that he'd ever really had, the one he'd been unable to shake. He saved people — that's just what he did. It was part of who he was, the reason for this trip — the wedge that had driven them apart. People _needed_ him. People _always_ needed him.

Ginny didn't need him.

He relinquished the bag, feeling it slip off his shoulder and out of his fingers in slow motion. He held her gaze, reading her certainty in those flashing eyes. They were doing the right thing. _She_ was doing the right thing.

Harry didn't know what he was doing. Would be doing. His life rolled out before him, a long, empty scroll shrouded in the fog that curled around their ankles. What would he do, where would he go, now?

"Good luck, Harry."

* * *

He stood motionless in the parking lot, staring after her retreating figure; her red hair swayed as she moved, stray wisps dancing in the light breeze that had sprung up. It curled lazily through the fog, swirling it into eddies, teasing his unruly curls and tickling his forehead. His arms hung loose at his sides, keys dangling limply from numb fingers long after she'd strode inside, and the automatic doors had _whooshed_ shut behind her, cutting him off from the person he —not loved. Not exactly, anyway. Not anymore.

He wasn't sure he ever had, he thought as he shook himself and went to return the rental car. Too large for the both of them, it dwarfed him and made him feel small. Not what he needed today. He climbed into the backseat of the taxi the attendant called for him, wrinkling his nose at the stale cigarette odor that permeated the worn plush seats, mingling with the reek of cheap perfume, and then leaned against the window, watching the trees and fields roll by. It was early, still. The highway was nearly deserted, and the sun hadn't yet breached the fog.

He stood uncertainly in the empty kitchen, staring blankly around at the cupboards and curtains, the knick-knacks and mementos of a life that wasn't his. The walls threatened to close in on him; the air was too thick, stifling. He had to get out.

He turned on his heel and walked mindlessly toward the sea, picking his way once more down to the rocky shore.

He could breathe easier, here. The fog curled around the rocks that jutted out of the water, glistening in the weak morning light. The shore was dotted with driftwood, small stones, and shells. He watched the gulls wheeling overhead, the waves crashing endlessly against the rocks, and felt the bands of panic around his heart ease.

A flash of white caught his eye, brilliant against the dark grey sand, and he bent down to peer at it.

A sand dollar, perfectly round; it fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. He hefted it, considering. Their landlady had assured them that it was all right to pick up shells from the beach here, and, indeed, he'd seen a few people doing just that the day before, drifting slowly down the shore, bending to uncover half-buried treasures, sometimes sitting in place for long minutes, sifting through piles of tiny rocks for something extraordinary.

He slipped the sand dollar into the pocket of his hoodie, making sure that it was secure and protected. Then he wandered down the beach until he found what seemed a likely spot — littered with bits of shell and rock — and plopped himself down to see what all the fuss was about.

The sand was damp, of course, and he knew it would soon soak through his jeans, but that didn't really bother him. He had others, back in the room, and a quick drying charm would take care of it anyway. It wasn't the most pleasant place he'd ever sat, but it wasn't uncomfortable, really.

He picked up a handful of sand and let it slowly sift through his fingers, trickling out to reveal the larger bits. Nothing caught his eye, so he discarded it and picked up another. He'd had some practice with patience and persistence of late, and he felt a quiet calmness settle over him. It was almost like a form of meditation, sitting here, picking slowly through the bits of rock.

The breeze played with his hair and he grinned to himself as he found something. A small rock, about the size of a large marble, polished round and smooth by tumbling waves. It glowed a swirling purple-orange, reminding him a bit of a remembral. He stuck it in a different pocket. It would be perfect for Neville.

His next find was even more exciting. He pushed aside his hair — even wilder and more unruly than usual, what with the salt spray and humidity — and brought his hand up to eye level. Yes, it was perfect — a tiny spiraling shell, no bigger than his pinky nail, delicate and absolutely made for Luna.

Then he found a glowing jade-green oval, and resolved to have it set into a necklace for Ginny — and then he remembered. He let the loss crash over him, like the waves over the rocks, and his thoughts from earlier came back to him.

Had he ever really loved her? She'd been the bright spot that shone for him, through the dark days of the war, the warm body that held him, the strong hands that stroked his hair, the lips that whispered that things would come right in the end, all those long nights after they'd won. After they'd defeated Voldemort, after he'd cheated death — and returned to find his world in chaos.

They'd been blind, all of them, naive enough to think that would end it. They'd narrowed their vision to one target — one man — because they'd had to, hadn't they, or gone mad with despair. But, in the end, that's all Voldemort had been. One man — one powerful man, certainly. An evil man. But there were _so_ many others.

They'd not been able to look beyond the impossible end, Voldemort's fall — and it was one of Harry's deepest regrets. He stared unseeing at the waves, remembering.

So many had fallen, after. Voldemort's army had exploded into a frenzy without his presence there to leash them, and the battle had become a bloodbath.

He should have seen that it would happen. _Someone_ should have. They'd given the Death Eaters Voldemort's face, and had forgotten that there were those among his masked, faceless ranks that were more bloodthirsty and power-hungry than even he. Like Hercules, they'd cut off the Hydra's head and called the deed done, only to find it had grown three more.

Not all of the Death Eaters had chosen to fight, of course. Some, like the Parkinsons, had dropped their masks and fled while the Mark was still fading from their arms. Others had joined the remaining members of the Order. The Malfoys had been first to do so, and it was, he grudgingly admitted, their help that had turned the tide and decided all of their fates that day.

He snorted. _The Malfoys_. They never would stop surprising him, it seemed. He'd thought, at first, that Lucius had sensed the tides were turning with that uncanny Slytherin sixth sense of his, and acted merely to make sure he came out of it all with pride and fortune intact.

When he realized, later, lying in bed during those first sleepless nights, with the soft snores of his friends surrounding him, that the outcome would likely have been different, without Lucius, Narcissa — and yes, even Malfoy — he'd not known what to think.

He'd brought it up the next morning, over Molly's pancakes, hoping they could help him make sense of it. Ginny had shrugged it off, uninterested in Harry's "unhealthy obsession with Malfoy." Ron had grumbled around a mouthful of bacon that they still ought to chuck the git into Azkaban, and Hermione had frowned at him, a concerned light in her eyes, until Ron had distracted her by whining about his "battle wounds" and dragging her away to tend them.

He'd put it out of his mind, turning his efforts to rebuilding, but now he found himself turning it over and over, looking for the truths hiding beneath the surface. He couldn't dismiss it so easily as the others had. Was it possible that he'd misjudged the Malfoys?

He thought of Narcissa, frantic with worry over Malfoy, lying to Voldemort's face to save him. He thought of Malfoy, sobbing in that bathroom, pale and frightened, pretending he didn't recognize Harry in the Manor, giving up the wands with only a token struggle — Harry knew quite well how much of a fuss Malfoy could kick up if he really wanted something — and the way Malfoy had clutched his waist and pressed against his back on that nightmare broom ride out of the roaring Fiendfyre.

He'd felt the earth rock beneath him that night, and even though his friends assumed he'd been so shaken because he'd just _died_ , he'd known that wasn't it. He still felt it, in his core. Even his magic had been shaken, stirred up, a fundamental truth he'd built his world around proved not-as-true-as-he'd-thought.

He didn't know what to think of them now. The Malfoys. Malfoy. _Draco_.

A cool breeze ruffled the hair on his nape and he shivered, then snorted. Maybe Hermione was right. Even now, everything in his life came back to Malfoy. He hadn't seen the git in years, didn't even know where he was — or if he were even still alive.

There had been a lot of vigilante 'justice' and revenge killings in the years immediately after the war. No one had protested too hard. It was only Death Eaters and their families who were targeted, after all. Public opinion was clear. They _deserved_ it. He felt an icy finger of fear slide between his ribs. Surely he couldn't be _dead_. Could he? Harry would have felt… something. Surely. Malfoy was too important to just disappear out of his life like that.

Another, more insistent breeze joined the first, and he shivered again, pulling his hoodie closer around him and tucking his hands under his arms. The chill was soaking through his damp jeans now, and he wanted nothing more than a nice hot soak.

He nodded, resolved. A bath was just the ticket. He felt the fear recede, a calm certainty trickle in to take its place. Malfoy was still alive. He _had_ to be. Harry couldn't imagine a world without Malfoy in it, hiding around some corner just waiting to jump out and taunt him.

He touched the hole in the thigh of his favorite jeans, imagining Malfoy rolling his eyes as he delivered some sarcastic jibe, and then tugged at a too-long lock of hair, embarrassed and not sure why.

It wasn't like he was going to run into Malfoy _here_.

He turned back to the ocean as he brushed the sand from his jeans, determined to put Malfoy out of his mind — and quietly resolving to get the jeans repaired tomorrow. Perhaps he'd even buy a new pair.

If Hermione had been there, he'd have had her do it — and put up with the lecture good-naturedly — but she wasn't. He supposed he could send her an owl and ask her to teach him the spell. But — no. He wanted to do this the muggle way. He'd wander into town and find a tailor and maybe a secondhand shop in the morning.

A porpoise leapt from the water, startling him, sunlight glistening on smooth gray skin, and he smiled. He had a plan, now — a purpose. He didn't do well without purpose. He'd discovered that, too, soon after the war, when Hermione had whisked Ron off to Australia to recover her parents, and left Harry suddenly directionless.

He'd floated along in a fog for awhile. Ginny had tried to help, but she hadn't understood. It was hard to get the knack of living again. He'd never really learned it. He'd become quite good at surviving — the Dursleys, Voldemort, the War. He knew how to put his head down and stubbornly survive. But _living_ baffled him.

The porpoise flipped her tail at him and swam off, and he waved, smiling a little and feeling a trifle silly. But there was no one there to see him, so he supposed it didn't really matter what he did. He slouched off back to the house to draw a nice warm bath, hands stuck deep in his pockets. They cradled his newfound treasures, heavy with the weight of memory — Neville. Luna. Ginny. Malfoy. A small smile tugged up one side of his lips.

His dreams that night were softer, less ominous than usual, and he woke with the smile still firmly in place.

* * *

The next morning, as he wandered along the familiar stretch of beach, he came across a young family playing in the sand. He watched the child, bemused, as he threw himself down into the sand, reveling in it, laughing and whooping, eyes shining with joy. A part of him suddenly ached for the childish wonder he'd never had a chance to have. Later, once the family was gone and he was once more alone on the secluded beach, he resolved to try it for himself.

He pulled a wry face, hoping he wouldn't regret it, and plumped down onto the sand. And — oh! It was soft — not at all what he'd expected, on a beach where everyone seemed to wear hiking shoes. Of course, he thought, that could just be because it was cold, and because going to this beach involved less sunbathing and more trekking than he'd expected.

But. Still. It was wonderful. He let himself sink deeper into the top layer, the grains shifting and sliding under him, smooth and sensuous as velvet against his skin. He lifted a handful and watched it sift through his fingers, mesmerized.

He stayed until he couldn't ignore his rumbling stomach any longer, and it was only when he neared the top of the staircase that wound up the cliff face that he realized: he'd forgotten to remember that he was in pain.

He tensed instantly, bracing for the familiar lightning strikes of pain — and the lack of it threw him off balance. He stumbled, windmilled his arms, teetering precariously. He risked a glance down, once he'd steadied himself, and caught his breath. It was a long way down.

He kept a wary eye out for the pain, all that evening, all night… it wasn't until later that he began to believe that it wasn't coming back.

* * *

The kitchen the next morning felt too-empty, the bed he'd woken in overlarge. He was suffocating, drowning in empty rooms, empty air. He needed to escape, just for a bit. He needed to breathe.

He clambered down to the beach, drawn back by an insistent pull, steady and constant as the tide, and stared out over the waves. The air was damp, heavy with salt and mist, the sea and sky and sand all colorless, poised between blue and gray, waiting.

He remembered the landlady's warnings, when they'd first arrived, her earnest concern. People drowned, she'd told them sadly, all the time. Visitors. The ocean was dangerous — deadly to those who didn't respect it. She'd left them pamphlets, warnings from the coast guard and other local agencies, filled with dire predictions and boldfaced words. Rip tides. Hypothermia. Sneaker waves.

But the sea was calling him, a primitive siren song that thrummed through his blood and bones, pulling him inexorably toward the water. He hesitated, picturing Ginny's face, his waterlogged remains. But he was a decent swimmer, and he had to live for himself, now. Anyway. He wouldn't go far. Just enough to soak his feet, ease the aching pull.

He slipped off his shoes and socks, leaving them on the sand well above the tide line. He didn't fancy trying to hitchhike barefoot. He'd been hiding here long enough; he was beginning to itch for company, his thoughts already wandering toward the open road.

He felt the cool, damp sand ooze between his toes, felt the sting of small shells and the smooth polished rocks. He stepped into the first, foamy tendrils of water and oh! He shivered, hopping in place a bit, trying to acclimate. It was freezing. He'd known the Pacific was cold — colder than the sea he was used to back home, but, still. He quickly put the vague inclination to swim out of his mind. There was no way he was going in past his ankles.

He did go past, just a bit. Not all the way to his knees, certainly. Just enough to say he'd really done it, braved the icy waters and —

He looked up, startled, to see a rogue wave headed straight for him. It was huge, vastly outstripping its fellows, and he stumbled back, turning and running up the beach. He passed his shoes just as the wave caught him, shoving the backs of his knees with an icy pressure far greater than he'd imagined and nearly toppling him. He righted himself with some effort, watched the wave recede, wide eyed, into a deceptively calm sea.

Then he remembered his shoes, and called them to him with an _accio_ cast entirely by instinct. He shook what water he could out of the sopping leather and canvas and then cast a hasty drying charm, widening it to include his jeans and grimacing at the salt left clinging to his legs. He'd shower when he got back to the room.

His heart was racing and he felt badly shaken. He was alone out here, so no one had seen the magic, but there was little chance anyone would rescue him, were he swept out to sea. He didn't fancy his chances in that icy water, in any case. He understood why the surfers and kayakers wore wetsuits, and was impressed at their daring. He didn't think he'd dare brave that icy water anytime soon.

He spent the rest of the day combing the shore for interesting bits and bobs, caching away a stash of treasures for his friends back home. He'd lost the camera in the sea, as he stumbled away from the waves, and he didn't bother looking for it. The water would have ruined it long before he found it.

* * *

He wasn't sure, really what made him think of the Dursleys. He'd been unsettled all day, and hadn't been able to shake a strange restless, jittery irritability. It wasn't until his jaw started aching from being clenched so tightly, and he realized that his hands were balled into fists, that he started to pay attention to the path his thoughts were treading. To his surprise, he found himself dredging up the old pain and grievances from his childhood. Things he'd not even told Ginny. Things he'd thought he'd long buried.

He sighed, taking another moment to think of the Dursleys, and how they'd forced him to work. How they'd starved him, and locked him in a cupboard, and done all they could to crush his spirit. He drew in a deep breath of faintly salty air, and then let the painful memories fall away, melting and crumbling through his fingers and sinking into the sand.

It just didn't seem to matter anymore. He'd grown up — he'd _died_ — if he wanted, he could go the rest of his life without ever seeing their faces again. They were small-minded, cruel people, living in a small, cruel world of their own choosing, and he could leave them to their small, cruel ways and move on. And he would, he decided. He _would_ leave them behind, there in the cool, gray sand, and not let them have any more hold over him, ever again.

He stood, dusting the sand from his hands and pants, imagining the grains of sand falling away as the Dursleys and all their cruelties. He felt a great burden lift from his shoulders. They'd controlled his childhood — he wouldn't let their memory control him any longer.

And the others who had been cruel to him: Umbridge and Skeeter had been simple bullies, and he never had to see either of them again.

Dumbledore and Snape, he thought bitterly, were harder. Of course they were. Where the Dursleys had been cruel out of ignorance, intolerance, and fear, Snape and Dumbledore had been cruel by necessity, choosing to accept cruelty as collateral damage in their epic war.

Harry no longer saw either of them in the simple, black-and-white terms he'd thought of them in as a boy. Snape had been 'evil' and Dumbledore 'good' — and now he wasn't sure what to think, except that they had both been solidly gray, a confusing mix of good and evil, of truth and lies, of kindness and of cruelty. Their allegiances kept shifting in his mind and memory, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to decide.

He was grateful to both of them, for their roles in defeating Voldemort, of course he was. But he hated Snape, for taking his anger at Harry's parents out on a boy who had never got the chance to know them, and he hated Dumbledore for handing him over to the Dursleys, knowing what they were like — he must have known, hadn't he, if not at first then later, faced with a gaunt, nearly starved boy at the start of each term — and for sending him back, year after year. He'd had excuses of course, seemingly reasonable ones, but… Surely there was something he could have done?

He'd _known_. And whether he'd refused to acknowledge it or simply accepted it as just another necessity of war — he'd known, and Harry _hated_ him for that, even as he loved him as the closest thing to a grandfather he'd ever had.

He wasn't sure which man he hated more, really, and he wasn't sure it really mattered. Because they were dead now, both of them, and he was alive, and while he supposed that one day he'd die too, and might very well have to confront them then, that day was hopefully a very long way away, and he had no intention of letting the pall of their cruelty hang over his head for the rest of his life.

So even though he knew it would be harder than forgetting the Dursleys had been — not forgiving, not yet, but perhaps one day — he vowed that he would do his damnedest to forget them. He was going to take the churning morass in his mind, that swirling, befuddling mixture of good and evil, love and hatred, and let it go.

And Malfoy -

He paused. Malfoy had been a bully, true, but not a very effective one. Harry thought of the pale shadow he'd become in sixth year, of the genuine remorse on his face after everything was done and the war was over, of the way Voldemort had tortured him—

He couldn't bring himself to feel the blazing hatred for Malfoy that he'd expected. It threw him, a little. Malfoy had always elicited strong emotions in him, from the very first time they'd met, and this was no different, certainly, but…

It wasn't anger that he felt, or hatred, or anything like what he felt for the others. As to what it was…

Harry frowned. It was almost like — but, no. That couldn't be right.

He shrugged, sloughing off the confusing thoughts with the hate, and turned, suddenly ravenous, and feeling lighter than he had in years, to climb back up to the house for dinner.

He was afraid he wouldn't sleep that night, but the sea worked its magic, just as it had every other night he'd spent there, and he was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Morning found him, once again, eschewing the cozy beach house for the joining of land and sea below.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the early morning fog. It smelled of salt and brine, of fish, and damp earth, and decaying plant matter. It lay heavy in his lungs, weighting him down, anchoring him solidly to the earth. He felt the weight of it all through him and then gathered it up, pushing it out in an explosive breath, stirring forth a curious lightness from the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair, and was suddenly filled with a sense of wonder, of the heady promise of a new day.

He raised his face to the sky, closing his eyes as he let the first rays of the early morning sun caress his skin, smooth the wrinkles of habit from his brow.

When he opened them again, the world was the same as it had been, but it was at the same time completely, irrevocably new. His pulse leapt with excitement, with the anticipation of finding out what this new day, in this new world, might bring. He felt energy zing through him, fizzing along his veins and through his blood and oh, he had never felt so alive!

The spring in his step, as he scrambled back up the cliff to the beach house, made him feel years younger, lifting decades of care and worry from his shoulders. His stomach rumbled fiercely, making its position clear. He would eat — eggs, and bacon, and pancakes — and drink his morning tea, and then he would be off, taking that first step into the vast wilderness of his future.

He didn't have anything pressing to do back home, and he really didn't want to face either his well-meaning friends or the Wizarding public — or, Merlin forbid, the _press_ — so soon after what was sure to be the hottest break-up story in years.

Yeah. He _really_ didn't want to go back anytime soon. And this seemed as good a place as any for — not hiding, he told himself firmly. He was most definitely _not_ hiding. And if he was — well. Rita Skeeter had somehow managed to hold onto her job at the Prophet, and she still covered every detail of Harry's life she could get her slimy hands on. Hermione's threats kept her — mostly — out of Harry's private life, but — he was pretty sure the break-up of the century wouldn't remain private.

"So," he said, staring out the window as he washed up, past the cheery yellow-checked curtains to the waves and beach below, "looks like I'll be staying here for a while. Well, in the area, anyway."

The waves crashed onto the rocks, ceaseless and eternal, and overhead, a lone gull cried mournfully. A gentle breeze rustled the curtains, whispered through his hair, promising new adventure. Springtime. Life.

He shook his head, whisking his meagre belongings back into his rucksack — specially customized by Hermione as part of her new line of stylish, utilitarian collapsible-space knapsacks. He snorted, remembering with a grin Ron's face when she'd told them. Hermione was undoubtedly brilliant, but when it came time to name her clever inventions, her cleverness inexplicably failed.

He took one last glance around the cottage, dropped the keys into the basket on the table by the antique weather clock, shouldered his rucksack, tested its heft against his back, and then stepped out into the unknown.

* * *

She didn't need him. She never had.

That's what had first drawn him to Ginny, he thought, standing beside the freeway entrance. He'd seen few cars as he trekked over here, and fewer people. None had seemed interested in stopping for him, but he wasn't worried. It was early, yet, and it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. The redwood trees that lined the road here weren't old growth, of course, but they were still shockingly tall, and he thought them beautiful.

He wasn't used to trees you had to crane your neck up to look at, and he'd spent quite a while enjoying the novelty of studying them. He wished he hadn't lost his camera — Luna would love them, he thought, and would whip a paintbrush out on the spot — and he resolved to pick another one up the first chance he got. For now, he settled for a few hasty sketches, a description that utterly failed to convey their majesty, and rather a lot of quiet contemplation. The peace he'd felt slipping into his soul at the shore grew stronger, expanding out to coil tendrils around his lungs and heart and vertebrae.

A few hours passed. He sighed, and shaded his eyes against the glare. Nothing. Wait — no. A pickup whizzed past, not bothering to slow, and he felt the wind from its passing whip his hair into a frenzied mass of curls. He sighed, patting futilely at it, and settled back against the tree trunk to think of Ginny.

Even before she'd made the transition in his mind from "Ron's little sister" to "Ginny — a _girl_ " he'd been drawn to her. She'd wanted him, sure, but he'd been mostly oblivious to her schoolgirl crush — juvenile not in its scope or intensity, but merely because she was still a child, still untried. Well, mostly. He thought of the diary, of a vengeful sliver of Tom Riddle's soul, devouring an innocent young girl, and grimaced.

But she'd still been young, even after. They all had. It was in the war that he'd truly seen her strength, as she fought beside her brothers, then fought to hold her family together, after Fred…

His thoughts trailed off and he ached for the missing Weasley twin, his mischievous smirk and quick wit. He'd been taken too soon — like so many others. George had paled after his twin's death, turned ghostlike, absent. Molly had been distraught. Arthur had gone grey overnight. Ron had been beside himself with grief and rage, and it had taken harry and Hermione together to restrain him and keep him from doing something he might one day regret. They hadn't had any attention to spare for the rest of the Weasleys, and he'd watched over Ron's heaving shoulder as Ginny dried her tears, straightened her back, and then picked up the pieces of her family. She'd held them all together through sheer, stubborn will, tapping wells of strength he'd no idea she possessed.

And after things had settled down, she told him she still wanted him — but they both knew she'd never needed him. It was only now that she was gone that he'd begun to realize that maybe — maybe he needed _her_. Just a bit.

He squared his shoulders. Well, he supposed he could get over that in time. It didn't feel quite so big as the dying thing, or the Voldemort thing, or the Dursleys thing…

He shook his head, a little unsettled at the feeling of memories shifting, slotting into place, then shrugged his shoulders, rolling them a bit to loosen them. He'd spent long enough trapped in that half-life, by other people's rules, other people's choices. He'd lived — and died — one life for them. It was time to learn to live for himself.

* * *

A hand-painted Volkswagen bus slowed that afternoon, its colorful occupants hanging out the windows and offering him a ride. It seemed an unlikely place to start his journey, but something about them reminded him of Luna, and so he hefted his rucksack into the back, hauled himself into the middle seat.

As they drove, he studied the girl seated next to him. She wore a macrame necklace dripping with sea glass, green and blue and translucent, and her sun-bleached curls rioted around her face, framing her freckled nose and curious eyes. Knowing eyes.

Harry flinched and looked away; she laughed. "Don't worry, it happens to everyone. I'm Kat."

"Um. Harry." He still felt guilty, and slightly off-balance. He felt a little better when the surly youth on his other side snorted and half-turned to roll his eyes in Kat's direction. "She _does it_ to everyone, is what she means to say." Then he turned resolutely forward again, ignoring Harry very intensely, and he shrugged and turned back to Kat, careful not to look into her eyes this time.

"Don't let it bother you," she said, shrugging slightly. "He's like that with everyone. Dunno why he bothers coming with us."

Inarticulate muttering to his left was the only response.

Harry shrugged and leaned back against the seat as Kat launched back into whatever tale she'd been in the middle of when they'd stopped for him, and let the road take him where it would.

Which, as it happened, was a campground in a state park, tucked away beneath some redwood trees. _Real_ redwood trees — not old-growth, yet, but verging on it — that blocked out the cheerful late-afternoon sun, shading the campsite in a premature dusk that stretched into evening.

* * *

Harry reclined by the fire as the after-dinner conversation petered out, basking in the quiet camaraderie and gazing up at the stars. They'd pitched their tents under the tree at the edge of the clearing, then clustered around the fire-ring in the center, talking and laughing as they fumbled their way through a messy dinner. It was quiet, save for the cheery popping of the burning logs, and the warmth at his front and cool air at his back made him lethargic. He drifted off without realizing it, watching the twinkling stars swirl and fade, and found himself suddenly seeking the snitch, flying faster and higher into the inky expanse of sky, chasing a laughing Malfoy and marveling at the stars — brilliant and burning… burning…

The dream shifted, and suddenly he was flying toward a terrified Malfoy, trapped amidst the flames in the room of requirement, stretching a trembling, unbelieving hand up and up and…

He woke with a start, scrabbling for his wand, slurring out half-formed curses. The flames crackled and leapt before his eyes and his adrenaline spiked. He threw himself backward, stumbling and cursing, before realizing that it was only the campfire. The others were staring at him, bleary-eyed, and he swallowed hard, visions of being dragged before MACUSA for violating the magical secrecy laws dancing before his eyes as he forced a laugh and played it off as a moment of confused panic because… because he'd thought he saw a spider crawling on his shirt. He winced at his fumbling — completely unbelievable — explanation, but they seemed to accept it, shrugging it off with surprising nonchalance.

He sat by the fire for a long time after they'd all gone to bed, only stumbling into his tent in the early morning, in hopes he'd be too tired to dream.

He woke to a world washed out by rain.

He spent the day lazing about his tent, surveying the treasures he'd collected for his friends, organizing and magically cleaning his clothes — even cracking open a few of the travel guides and history books Hermione had packed.

She'd insisted he bring them, and since she'd miniaturized them and spelled them feather-light, he hadn't seen fit to argue. A few of them even turned out to be rather interesting, though he didn't think it would be wise to admit that to Hermione. She'd use it as an excuse to send him everywhere with an entire library on his back — and even if they didn't weigh down the pack, they somehow weighed down his brain. Or maybe that was just the incessant droning of the water pounding the fabric of his tent.

Kat poked her head in that afternoon, ignoring the rain that plastered her hair flat to her head.

"Hullo stranger," she said, "would you like to join us for dinner?" She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, toward the larger of their two tents.

Harry considered, then shook his head. "Nah — I've got plenty of food here. He patted his bag and then held up the book he'd been reading. "Besides, I've got this." It was a history of the area, and of the German explorer it had been named for, and he found it surprisingly interesting.

She nodded, looking rather amused. "Well, you're welcome to join us later if you feel like it. There will be games, I imagine. Could be interesting."

In the end, he nodded off over one of Hermione's books, slumber blissfully uninterrupted by dreams. It stopped raining sometime while he slept, and he woke to find that the gray landscape of the day before had transformed into verdant green.

* * *

A bird trilled, hidden in the trees somewhere off to his left, song lilting higher and higher, spiraling in lazy loops. Light filtered through the canopy, bathing the campsite in warm, liquid sunlight, lending everything it touched a warm, honey glow.

Harry stretched his arms above his head, groaning as his shoulders cracked, easing the familiar knots of tension that lived in his back. He rolled his neck, shook the sleep from his arms, and surveyed the empty campsite.

He'd awoken late, stumbling bleary-eyed out of his tent to find the others had left some time before. He'd blinked, feeling icy fingers of panic clutch at him, then realized they'd left all their things.

A flutter of white caught his eye, and he bent down to retrieve the note at his feet, weighted down with one of the small rocks that littered the campsite.

 _'_ _Harry!'_ he read, smiling a little at the large, loopy handwriting _, 'Hope we didn't worry you, only this dude offered to show us a local hangout and, well, we could hardly refuse. You don't really seem the sort to be into that, and, anyway you looked like you could use the sleep. We'll be back around sunset, probably._

 _—_ _Kat'_

He smiled, amused at his new companions all over again. He could appreciate their carefree ways, so long as he wasn't expected to join them. She was right, though — it really wasn't his style. He supposed that a childhood of neglect, abuse, and yearly attempts on his life, culminating in a war where so many of his friends and family had died, with everyone expecting him to be their savior — their martyr… Well. It was no wonder he had trouble relaxing, much less being carefree.

Yes, it was probably wise of them to leave him behind for that one. And he did feel _much_ better after a good night's sleep. He'd not had enough of those, yet, for the sensation of waking clear-headed and refreshed to lose its novelty.

He enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, then walked through the trees, craning his neck up and up to stare toward the faraway canopy. He'd never known that trees could be so massive, could make him feel so very small. They blocked out the sounds of fellow hikers — though there didn't seem to be many out that morning, chased away, perhaps, by the rain and not yet returned — and even the rush and hum of traffic on the road fell away the further into the trees he walked.

It was almost eerie, the way the carpet of needles and damp earth underfoot deadened his footsteps. He'd never walked so silently, not even when trying to sneak around Hogwarts at night. The only sounds were the soft trill of bird song, curiously damped, and the drip, drip, drip from the branches far above.

Beneath the astonishingly tall trees were ferns, great leafy ferns that looked like they belonged in some muggle dinosaur movie. He recognized the skunk cabbages Kat had pointed out to him when they'd first arrived, and the cheerful sorrel that covered the ground. Here and there a trillium sprouted, glossy dark green leaves and white flower distinctive amongst the lighter sorrel.

There were mushrooms, too, loads of them. And no wonder, with rain like that. Still, he'd never imagined such a variety, from tiny, delicate tan ones no bigger than his pinky nail to massive orange ones that could easily seat a toad.

He stared about him, awed and amazed at the glistening, soggy beauty. It felt… magical.

He collapsed eventually under a massive redwood to eat his lunch, leaning back against the trunk. This tree had been through a fire — it was burned and charred, bark blackened and trunk hollowed out. And yet it remained defiantly alive, sprouting new growth farther up, above the scarring.

He rubbed at his own scar, faded now, and all but hidden under his hair, grown even more unruly with the damp and exertion. That scar had defined his place in the world for so many years, but now it had lost much of its power. He could do anything, be anything. He felt like he was ready, like this ancient tree, to sprout new growth. But what would it look like?

Of course, he wasn't the only one who'd been scarred by the war. They all carried scars, now. Some more obvious than others. Lavender's life had changed drastically since Greyback had savaged her face — but he didn't think even she could say whether it had been for the better. Of course, she'd rather _not_ have the scars, he knew, but they'd also afforded her freedom that she'd never have had without them. Freedom to forge her own path as an Auror, free of the expectations that she be pretty and air-headed. Free to finally date Parvati openly.

And Bill. Bill, too, had been marked by Greyback, but he wore the scars so easily that Harry often forgot. They were just a part of his tough Curse-Breaker appearance, with the tattoos and the earrings and the dragon-hide boots. He wore his scars as a mark of pride.

And Malfoy. Harry thought of the ugly black scar marring Malfoy's pale skin, and frowned. That one seemed worse than the others, somehow. How could one twist the Mark into something good, something noble? The last time he'd seen Malfoy, he'd hidden it away as a mark of shame. And that's what most people thought it was, but… Harry sighed. Malfoy hadn't known what he was getting into, and he had acted to save his mother. Not that that mattered to most people but Harry found that it mattered to him. Quite a lot.

Malfoy. It seemed he couldn't get away from him, even on the other side of the world. He sighed, pillowed his face on his arm, and decided to take a nap, shoving all thoughts of Malfoy into the dark corners of his mind, and hoping they didn't decide to invade his dreams.

* * *

That night he sat at the edge of the fire, staring into the flames and letting the chatter of the others wash over him, lapping gently around the edges of his consciousness. Sometimes a word or phrase would catch his ear, snag him away from the dancing flames before him. A musical giggle rang out and he looked up, catching Kat's eyes, dancing like the flames. She shot him a quicksilver grin and then beckoned, inviting him to join the circle. He smiled and shook his head, too tired to move, and perfectly content on the outskirts anyway. She nodded, understanding, and then turned back to the others, drawn into some story that Harry couldn't quite follow. He turned his attention back to the fire, marveling at how like and yet unlike Fiendfyre it was. The campfire felt alive, too, but in a way completely alien to the snarling, devouring horde that he remembered from his brush with the Fiendfyre.

How different it was, he thought, as another laugh rang out and washed over him, to be alone by choice, or among strangers, than to be forcibly separated from family or friends, shut in a closet, set on a pedestal — to be expected to die for them all before he'd ever really got the chance to live. All in all, the solitude of anonymity was rather nice.

* * *

A gentle hand on his shoulder startled him out of the light doze he'd fallen into. The fire had burned down — he must have been asleep for awhile. He shivered, slightly, as a gentle whisper of night air chilled his skin.

"Harry?"

He looked up at Kat, smiling. "Yes?"

"Have you given any thought to where you're going? Only we've decided it's time for us to move on — we've a ways to go yet, before we have to go back to school. Will you be coming with us?"

He was grateful to her for the offer, and considered for a moment. He _could_ go with them, wherever they were headed. He didn't really have a schedule to follow. He could..

The breeze picked up, kissing his cheek and tickling his jaw and he sighed. Something was pulling at him, telling him there was something yet here for him.

"No, I think I'll stay here awhile. Well, in the area anyway. Drop me in town on your way out?"

She smiled, brushed a honey-blonde curl out of her eyes. "Of course. Any town in particular?"

He shrugged. "I'll know it when I see it, I suppose. Isn't that what you always say?"

She grinned. "So you _have_ been listening, then. All right — we can do that. And," she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in until he could smell the hint of sandalwood and patchouli on her skin, "I bet I know which one you'll pick."

"Oh? And which one is that?" He didn't see how she could possibly know, seeing as how he didn't know himself, but he was curious. She seemed to _know_ things sometimes, and he thought maybe she had a touch of magic about her.

"Ah, but that would be telling!" She smirked at him, and he felt his stomach give a little flip at the wry twist of her lips, and then she was gone, fading back into the night, and he was left with more questions than answers. He was used to the feeling by now, though, so his sleep was easy enough, if plagued by nebulous dreams that faded into wisps, swirling away into sparkles of gold the next morning as he tried to catch them.

* * *

They left soon after that, packing up the campsite with the ruthless efficiency of those who spend a great deal of time on the road — he recognized it, from that year on the run with Hermione, and even managed to make himself useful — and headed south along the coast. He watched the small towns pass by, wondering if he ought to pick one at random, rather than trusting this strange instinct that he would _know_ … and then they rounded another curve, passed another spectacular ocean view, a few farms and fields of cows, and —

"That one," he said, certain, as he'd never been about anything in his life, and also wondering what the hell was going on, and why the breeze had chosen that moment to whip his hair into a frenzy of knots.

The boy whose name Harry had failed to learn, and who he'd therefore dubbed 'scowly youth' turned briefly from where he was taking his turn at the wheel, eyebrow arched in surprise. "That one? You sure?"

Kat took one look at Harry's face, and grinned. "He's sure." The boy rolled his eyes, but turned obediently onto the exit ramp. Kat elbowed Harry in the side. "Told you," she crowed. Then, more quietly, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

He stopped rubbing his bruised ribs — making a mental note to never sit next to her again — and smiled. "Thank you. Though how I'll find it without knowing what it is…"

She laughed, handed him his knapsack, and gave him a gentle shove. "You'll know. When the time is right, you'll know." She pecked him on the cheek, ruffled his hair, and then climbed back into the van, waving madly until it drove out of sight.

Harry shouldered his knapsack and started walking, a steady, insistent breeze pushing him on.

* * *

He didn't know what it was about the little town that called to him, only that it did. He'd been drifting, with no tethers and no expectations, but now something was drawing him, pulling him in on an invisible tide.

He found a place to stay, settled into the quiet rhythm. He was walking through town one morning, having found his supplies running low and therefore determined to visit a grocery, when he was overwhelmed by a sensation he couldn't quite define. A sense of place, he supposed, of being _here_ , _now._

The sun was warm on his back, as he walked toward the center of town, the perfume of roses heavy in the air, but the fog was rolling in off the ocean ahead of him, replacing the spring warmth with cool, damp air that tasted of salt and fish and decay.

He was reminded of Luna, and her strange (and sometimes disastrous) efforts at making perfume, after the war. Her scents were always… _unique_ , and Harry had been the only one of their friends brave enough to sample them (much to Ginny's displeasure). But, he thought, sniffing curiously, if Luna had come to him and asked him to test a roses-and-fish concoction, he'd have laughed at her. Enough was enough, and some things just weren't meant to go together. Like him and Malfoy.

Only, he was discovering that that wasn't necessarily true.

* * *

When Saturday came around, he walked down to the plaza in the center of town. The girls at the grocery had insisted he not miss the farmers market, and he didn't suppose he had anything better to do. He sauntered along, hands in his pockets, whistling a cheerful tune. There was no fog; it promised to be a gorgeous day. He could think of worse places to spend it than a market.

When he arrived, he paused, taken a little aback. It was only nominally a market, and rather more of a celebration. Yes, there were farmers selling produce, and people buying it, but there was so much more. A band played on the center stage, an infectious rhythm that had their audience laughing and clapping along. A white-haired man suddenly stood, doing an impromptu jig and _glowing_ with happiness. Then a young woman joined him, grabbing his hands and spinning in a circle, laughing as her skirt swirled around her and her hair flew out behind. Another woman danced a few yards away, swirling a hula hoop around her hips. More hoops lay on the grass around her, and people joined and left her dance as Harry watched.

A small group of barefoot young men contorted themselves into impossible shapes, twisting their bodies and performing a bizarre mix of yoga and contact juggling. Another walked and danced along a rope strung between two trees. A clown blew bubbles, followed by a gaggle of giggling children. Other children ran, laughed, climbed trees, and generally ran amok.

Everyone was so _happy_ , overflowing with joy and the celebration of — _of what?_ he wondered. What was it they were celebrating? He stopped beside one of the erstwhile hula hoopers who had stopped to catch her breath, let the question fall between them.

She looked up at him and smiled, eyes sparkling. "It's not raining," she said, shrugging a little. "It's spring. We're alive."

He watched her run off to join her friends, turning her statements over in his mind. _It's not raining. It's spring. We're alive._

He'd never really considered those as reasons to celebrate before, but… why not?

He wandered through the stalls, buying whatever caught his fancy. Strawberries, ripe and red and luscious. Goat cheese, locally made. Crusty bread, baked that morning. Fresh apple juice, squeezed as he watched. A small pot of honey, with a waxy bit of honeycomb inside.

When he had all he could reasonably carry, he found a spot on the grass and sat to eat and watch the revelry. No one seemed to mind, and they were all so colorful and exuberant, he couldn't _not_ watch them.

The contortionists had moved on to juggling, sending balls and clubs and rings whirling impossibly fast through the air. A set of rainbow-colored scarves had appeared, and the children were spinning madly, scarves streaming out behind them.

A girl walked by with a pair of small green birds on her shoulders. A woman set up an easel and began to paint. There was more produce on sale than Harry had ever seen in one place. At a stall near the end, a woman sat at a spinning wheel, spinning with rabbit fur. A girl plopped down next to him with a mint-green case. He watched, curious, as she opened it up, revealing a typewriter, and then started typing. She seemed to be well-known — people stopped to chat, exchanging coins for poems that she typed on the spot. Harry bought a poem from her, after a while, because he felt a little bad for watching her so intently and not offering anything in return. She told him all about herself, and why she sat here, an itinerant poet. He filed it away to tell Dean, when he returned to —

He was startled to discover that it didn't quite feel like home anymore. He froze, staring unseeing over the chaotic crowd before him. When had that happened? He'd had trouble feeling at home anywhere other than Hogwarts, but… even that paled in comparison to this place that had, apparently, wrapped its tendrils around his heart and dug deep, clinging tenaciously and claiming him. _Mine_ , they said, _you are mine. You belong here._

A little unsettled, he brushed off the crumbs and decided to wander through town a bit. Perhaps some window shopping would help clear his head. He bought a peach on his way out of the market — they were so plump and juicy, he couldn't pass them by — and wandered down the street, biting into it, savoring the flavor that exploded across his tongue and the juice that dribbled down his chin. He wiped it on his sleeve, sidestepping a man walking a … goat?

He shook his head, turning back around, and stopped, confronted with a bookstore. He was about to walk on when a breeze sprang up out of nowhere, ruffling his hair and setting the bells on the door jingling. He felt an invisible pull, gentle and insistent as the tide, and shrugged. He could use something to read in the evenings anyway. Hermione's selections had proven to be rather light on fiction and, well, _light_ reading.

He pulled open the door, smiling at the cheerful jingle that greeted him, inhaling the familiar scent of books. He'd come to know that smell well at Hogwarts, spending all those hours in the library. Not by choice, perhaps, but he'd found solace in reading, after the war, where he hadn't anywhere else. He was surprised to learn how fond he was of that used book smell.

He surveyed the shelves, the glossy titles and worn, leather-bound tomes. He grinned a little when he saw the shelf of books wrapped in brown paper, a small sign declaring _Blind date with a book!_ He was tempted, but decided he didn't want to leave it quite so much up to chance. He wasn't sure he trusted the person choosing those titles to have tastes very much different from Hermione's. He turned a corner, running his fingers lightly along the spines of the books, searching for something and not really knowing what it was. Just as he was about to reach for one that looked promising, he heard a familiar voice.

"You don't mean to tell me you're buying those? Don't you have any taste at all under that outdated sweater — which, by the by, doesn't flatter you _at all_?"

Harry turned, leaving the book where it lay, drawn inexorably to that voice, the familiar snooty aristocratic tone, realizing that _this_ was what had been pulling him in.

The voice stopped abruptly as the man behind the counter looked up and met Harry's eyes, his pointy, aristocratic features loosening, softening as his mouth dropped open in shock.

" _Potter_?" he whispered, incredulous.

Harry smiled. "Malfoy."

"What are you doing here?" The words tumbled over themselves, harsh and sharp, as if they'd been blurted quite unintentionally.

Harry raised an eyebrow, sweeping out an arm. "Browsing for a book. Obviously."

It was perfectly calculated, just enough scorn to put them on familiar ground.

Malfoy scowled, but his face hardened again, settling into its familiar expression of haughty disdain. He sniffed. "I meant what are you doing _here_." He waved an arm toward the door, indicating an area larger than the bookstore around them. "It's a long way from home."

Harry grinned. "I could ask you the same question."

The girl behind the counter with Malfoy, who had taken over the transaction Malfoy had forgotten, sent the customer on her way and then turned to Malfoy, rolling her eyes. "Have you finally taken leave of your senses? You're here to work, not flirt!"

Malfoy turned an interesting shade of red. Harry moved toward the counter, pulled helplessly into Malfoy's orbit, mindlessly picking up the book lying on the counter, one the previous customer must have left behind. "I'll take this one."

Malfoy, still attractively flushed, refused his money. "It's on the house. I can't let you pay for such an awful book."

Malfoy's coworker looked affronted. "You can't just _give_ away books! Where is your head today?"

Malfoy stiffened, glaring at her. "I wasn't _giving_ _it away_. I was going to pay for it later."

An older woman emerged from the back room, where she had obviously been listening. "Ah, Elena. Let the boy flirt. Lord knows he doesn't get enough fun in his life."

The girl — Elena — scowled. "Flirting? On the job? Anyway," she gave Harry a skeptical once-over, "it's not like he's his type."

The older woman laughed. "Honey. He's _so_ his type."

Harry felt his face heat, and knew that he was probably as red as Malfoy.

The woman smiled at them. "Dan, why don't you take your break now? Show this nice young man around?"

Malfoy looked up, perplexed. "But I don't have a break for—"

"Oh, come now, Dan. It's my shop, and I say you can take your break now. You don't get nearly enough chances to enjoy yourself."

" _Dan_?" Harry mouthed.

Malfoy rolled his eyes as he gathered his things, mouthing back, "Shut up." He put some money into the cash drawer, shooting Elena a pointed look, and then shooed Harry out the door.

* * *

Malfoy. Of all the quiet bookstores in all the towns in all the world, he'd walked into Malfoy's. Harry wanted suddenly, desperately to laugh. Hermione was right, Merlin help him. Everything in his life always came back to Malfoy.

He felt an insistent breeze tease his hair, tickle his neck, and the elation bubbled up in him, wild and infectious, threatening to ooze out his pores, and utterly uncontrollable. He turned, grinning, to see Malfoy's eyes searching his face hungrily and he bit his lip, holding his breath and trying to contain himself. He needed Malfoy to understand that he wasn't laughing _at_ him. The old animosity that had colored their every interaction since first year had melted away, leaving an undeniable spark of interest. Harry supposed it had always been there — he'd just been too blind to see it.

After a heart-stopping moment Malfoy's shoulders relaxed, and Harry couldn't contain himself any longer. Malfoy snorted as Harry's grin widened again, but his grey eyes warmed and the corner of his lips tugged up.

"So," he said, smirking just a bit. "Where shall we go?"

Harry shrugged. "You're the one who lives here. Surprise me."

One of Malfoy's eyebrows rose. Harry braced himself for the flood of anger, but it didn't come. The only thing he could think was how on earth he'd never realized how damned attractive Malfoy was.

"Surprise you."

It was a question, but at the same time it wasn't, and Harry spent a long moment marveling at how many shades of meaning Malfoy could cram into three syllables, and then he realized that he hadn't actually replied, which was of course why Malfoy was staring at him. He nodded, blushing and biting his lip, and Malfoy's eyes warmed further. "Well, then, Potter," he said, sweeping his arm out theatrically, "follow me."

The voice in Harry's head that sounded disturbingly like Hermione whispered, _when have you ever been able to do anything else?_

For a moment all he could see was Malfoy as he'd been in sixth year, pale and drawn and anxious; but the breeze shifted, blew his hair into his eyes, and when he'd scrubbed it back again the specter was gone. In its place stood this new _alive_ Malfoy, staring at him, warm gray eyes a little bit worried and a lot impatient.

Harry let the past go, fraying away in the breeze, and held out his hand, stepping toward the future.

* * *

Malfoy stood beside him, a few days later, staring out over the slate-gray sea. "I've been meaning to ask," he said softly, not meeting Harry's eyes, "but what brought you here? How did you — did we…" he trailed off, biting his lip.

Harry felt a pang somewhere deep in his chest, like a guitar string, plucked and left to vibrate. He was silent for a moment, choosing his words.

This moment was important. The breeze winding through his hair told him that, as well as the way Malfoy's hands tightened on the railing, white-knuckled and tense.

"I met this girl while traveling" he said, after a moment, "and she said I was looking for something. I think she had a touch of magic in her."

Malfoy hummed softly. "Did you find it?"

Harry drummed his fingers on the railing. "Yes. Yes, I rather think I did."

Malfoy didn't look at him, stared instead out over the slate-gray sea, fingers clasped tightly together in front of him. "What was it?"

Harry considered, shoving his hands in his pockets, running his fingers absently over the smooth amber stone he'd decided to keep there, staring out over the sea. Looking for the words that would help Malfoy — help both of them — understand.

His thoughts wheeled like the gulls overhead, touching on the fire and horrors of a childhood at war that faded as he watched, melting into the inexorable tide and pounding surf, solemn redwoods, frothy sea foam, the crying of gulls, the salt of the ocean, the wind lashing damp hair across his cheeks, gray, leaden skies and storm-tossed sea, rain that fell for days, and the unfettered joy of spring.

"Peace," he said finally, turning to Malfoy with a smile and lacing their fingers together, studying them, dark and light intertwined against the muted gray, the vibrant flowers that now swirled up Malfoy's left arm, obscuring the faded lines of the Mark.

"I found peace."

~The End~


End file.
